Page 125 of The Darkest Oath

“Death is easy,” he said, clenching his teeth as he watched Louis Charles struggle for breath. “The journey to it is hard, as you well know.” Rollant kept his gaze locked with Louis Charles but took in the bruises on his arms and neck and the one on his cheek. “You are brave, my king, but let it come. Sleep, and it will find you in peace.”

Louis Charles closed his eyes and whispered with a cough, “Will you stay with me?”

“Always,” Rollant said. His thumb swiped the child’s tear away. “You will be with them soon,” he whispered.

He had seen children perish before, but Louis Charles was the only one he had seen beaten to the point of illness and death. It turned his stomach that an illness would give him a respite from the cruelty he incurred.

When the boy’s small chest stilled, Rollant knew it wasn’t just a child’s life that had ended—it was the last fragile thread of an eight-centuries-old kingdom unraveling in his hands.

He stayed kneeling beside the boy’s body long after the candle had burned low, staring at the fragile fingers loosely curled around the cross. The silence in the chamber suffocated any peace that was supposed to come with death.

“I have fought for kings for centuries, and yet, when it mattered most, I have been powerless,” he muttered.

His fingers brushed over Louis Charles' cooling hand. His hoarse whisper cut through the silence, “I am sorry.”

He sat back on his heels, his fists clenched at his sides. The weight of his oath had never felt so empty. The hot sear of anger burned through his heart.

“He was just a boy,” Rollant muttered, his hands balling to fists. “And I failed him. The Revolution failed him, allowed him to suffer in this dank place.”

He had lived through countless deaths, but none pierced him like Louis Charles. What was the point of his immortality if he couldn’t save a boy—a child who had done no wrong except being born to a king?

The door opened. “Ah, Garde Rollant Montvieux,” his commanding officer said. Footsteps echoed behind him as he peered over Rollant’s shoulder. “What a pity.” The commanding officer grunted. “Well, looks like you have the rest of the day seeing your prisoner no longer needs you, and we are short on funds, so take the week.”

Rollant’s chin dipped. “What will happen to his body?”

“Buried beneath the Temple with the others,” the officer said.

Rollant stood up, taking one last look at the boy king. The family cross lay loose in his hand. “He loved the cross,” Rollant said, ensuring his voice was devoid of any emotion. “If you can, please keep it in his hand.”

The officer patted Rollant’s shoulder. “I knew you took a liking to the boy. I am sorry.”

Rollant nodded and began to walk out.

“One last thing, Garde Montvieux,” the officer said, holding up a finger. “We have orders from the National Convention to tell no one that Louis Charles is dead. He lives and is well if anyone asks. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain,” Rollant said and left with dismissal. He glanced up at the tower where Marie-Thérèse was held under lock and key. He had promised their father he would watch over them, but she was not the king, and no one remembered she was there.

As he made the long walk back to Charonne, he wondered what would become of him. The king’s brother was now the rightful heir but had fled France and resided in Verona. He wondered if his oath extended to kings regarded as traitors to the country. But even then, the king’s brother had no children and would likely never have children. He remembered the few breaks in royal lineage throughout the centuries when distant cousins claimed the throne and took it for themselves. But would there be even a crown to claim? If the war ended in France’s favor, the royalists surrendered, and the constitutional monarchy remained abolished, what would become of Rollant? It was a lot of factors for the sorceress to consider. He hadn’t felt fate guiding his steps to Verona as they usually always led back to the king.

As he walked the cobblestone path to his home, he saw his love hanging laundry to dry.

Her voice broke through the haze.

“Rollant?” She ran to him, her hair streaming behind her in the summer breeze. He wanted to close the gap, to let her warmth break through the chill in his chest—but his feet were heavy, rooted in the weight of his thoughts.

Her face came into view, crystal clear amid the blur. “Why are you back so soon in the day?” she asked and touched his arm. Her eyes scanned him, likely looking for blood or evidence of a wound. “Is everything—” She stopped and gazed into his eyes. “It’s the boy, isn’t it?”

Rollant nodded. “They told me to take the week since they are low on funds, and he no longer needs a guard.” His voice was monotone.

“I’m so sorry, Rollant,” she said, slipping her fingers through his and leading him home by the arm.

He knew he should open his heart to Élise, but he just wanted the quiet. He changed his clothes and began working in the garden while she finished the laundry. With both working, their chores ended early. They ate silently, and while Rollant washed the dishes, Élise wrapped her arms around him and lowered her forehead to his back.

“Leave the dishes,” she whispered. “I’ll wash them tomorrow.”

He threw the dish back in the basin before leaning both hands on the counter. Élise tightened her embrace at the sudden clatter. His head hung with a furrowed brow. “They killed him,” he said.

Élise’s tears pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt. “I am sorry, Rollant. And I’m sorry for my role in it. The movement was never meant to be what it became. Those poor children were never supposed to be orphaned and beaten and killed. Louis Charles was a victim of the violence I once believed was necessary.”

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